by Holden, Ryan
He felt tempted to mark a new course. Northwest seemed right. But the last tracks he'd seen before the wind-shifted sand swallowed them up were very clear: the road ran west. If anything, it had a slight southward tilt. He looked back again. How the cool mountain slopes called to him—he could almost feel their breezes on his neck! He opened his eyes: the wind here slapped sun-scorched sand on his unprotected face.
But he did not know how large this desert was. What if he were to cross it the long way? Worse yet, not have a clear course and go in large circles, wasting valuable days. He was sure the merchant wasn't wasting his. No, it would have to be the road or Darach. And it wasn't Darach.
The next morning Paris, having passed through several small towns and within sight of countless villages and hamlets in the rolling hills, approached the city. Walls shone white and red pennants fluttered. A half a dozen guards stood leaning on their weapons near the gate, none so much as looking at Paris as he approached. He rode through and after a few twists and turns later stopped at a well-stocked alehouse. Handing the reins over to the stable boy he looked about. He could see the palace rising above the intervening buildings, no change visible in the ten years since he'd been here. He clutched his pocket and kissed what lay in there. “Good day, and well met.” He nodded at one of the towers.
A passerby looked at him strangely. He scowled back and the freeman, if one could trust his clothes, glanced away and hurried his step a bit. Paris smoothed out his clothes, telling himself it would be safe, and went inside.
Orion woke up coughing. He keeled over and retched, trying to get the sand out of his air pipe. A couple contortions dealt with the worst; then it was on to spitting and grimacing. He grabbed some water to rinse his mouth out. Right before spitting he took another look at the flask in his hand. He made himself swallow the water.
Half of it went down, then he gave up, coughing and spitting the rest out. Kerry looked at him while chewing her cud. “You laugh now,” then gave up speaking.
The wind was whipping little eddies of sand here and there. He reminded himself not to yawn without precaution. He got Kerry up and they went on their way, no desire to eat in this desolate place. He was glad they did: hours later the sun beat down on them mercilessly and he found partial shelter next to a boulder. There was even a little mud at its base.
Evening brought relief. They traveled far into the night. Orion had no idea when this sea of gold would end. He wished it, yearned for it, expected it the next hour then the next then the next. He didn't mind exhaustion. Any less time in this accursed place would be worth it.
The next morning was worse. His mouth had dried in the night. Trying to drink cracked and bloodied his lips. He knew what a full day of this would be like. At first light he woke and resolved not to let any hour be wasted save the absolute least sleep required. He look some light cloth—a kerchief of his mother's—and bound it about his face. That felt better.
He dreamed of pouring water over himself or, better yet, jumping in a pool, but the water did not present itself. As the hours passed he dreamed of a single cloud coming to give just a hint of shade, anything less than the full sunlight. But that did not come either.
That night he couldn't stop himself. He drank the last of his water. Kerry had had none for two full days. Well girl, his lips moved a bit but no noise other than air came out, here's to hoping tomorrow's the last day. Despite having rocked half-asleep on Kerry all day he was severely fatigued. Thirst robbed him of any deep sleep but what he got was enough. He hoped.
Paris sat in the corner table far from the door. He ordered veal, a favorite from childhood. Well, not quite. He found the meat disgusting. But it was expensive and only the successful could afford it. He pretended not to notice when a scullery maid was sent out the door and sneaked back in some time later. She thought he didn't see the steak in her hands, steak just purchased from next door. He smiled. Time someone took trouble for him.
He bit into red grapes, some of the last of the season. Juice ran down his chin. Ahh, the days when he thought, as was the joke told to young boys, that this would turn one's beard red bringing good fortune. His beard was still black and far too long. A barber was next, after sleeping—in a real bed, no less. He had money left, much more than expected, the ring without expenditure of coin, and would not make a novice's error.
No, it was worth a few days to freshen up. Eat well, sleep well. Clean shave. New wardrobe. Exult in his position. He crushed more grapes in his mouth, juice spurting deliciously. He wiped his nose with his sleeve. Why not?
Orion woke up without sand in his mouth. It was in the rest of his clothes but he hadn't choked on it. A fair trade. Stripping and shaking the sand out was but the work of a moment. He almost felt comfortable. He dressed and got Kerry up.
She groaned and rose. He took a look at her. Was there something different, around her eyes? Just sleep. Or thirst. He felt it too.
Orion checked Kerry's eyes throughout the day. Once he pulled back the half-closed lids. She didn't let him do that twice. They did look different. He began to worry, not knowing whether he worried because it was serious or because he wanted something to think about to stop from going mad. Her pace was as steady as before, just no spring in her step.
He had an idea. Dismounting he cast off the saddle. He had a cloak that served as a light cushion, not needed elsewhere in this heat. The saddle wasn't much weight, not even one stone, but he imagined he felt a difference.
He cried. Without tears. Who was he to face a desert? As if discarding a saddle would help. He should have turned around, waited for the next caravan of merchants, anything but this. He felt his death coming.
Kerry took little training: some time before noon, she found a place she liked and stopped. Orion had no clue why. There was no shade. It was like anywhere else. Why did it take a couple dozen steps in a circle, a sniff, then the process repeated a hundred paces later? On the fourth try she was satisfied. Or had given up.
She snorted when he didn't dismount. Sorry, sorry, princess. He started to get off but fell instead. Ouch. He lay where he fell. As the sand flicked at him he clambered over the lying kardja and crouched in her wind shadow.
He shoved his face against her side and tucked his hands beneath. A moment later he moved, the warmth emanating from her body too much. Orion felt like the baker had grabbed him and shoved him by the neck into his cavernous oven. He rocked back and forth, wishing for relief.
Thirteen
Something niggled at the back of Orion's mind. He wondered what it was. Something was strange, different. Almost as if... his hands twitched, and he felt it again. He bent his thought to his fingertips and probed. There it was. A solid lump, just beneath the surface.
Was it disease? Did this explain the change in her eyes? He felt all around it. He touched it again, this time looking at Kerry. Her eyes were shut and her ears made no sign. He prodded it harder. She paid no more attention than she would if he were brushing her right now.
Hmm. Doesn't seem to hurt her. He slid his hand sideways, stroking her coat. Good thing it doesn't grow much until later in the year, he thought. Anytime a kardja was off her feed her coat would suffer. He couldn't imagine how hot she must be in it. Since the harsh grasses on the eastern edge Kerry had found a single cactus to gnaw. Definitely not enough food.
His fingers twitched. There it was again. He must have moved his hand, because... No! There were two of them. His fingers ran like disturbed spiders over her. Nothing on her back, nor side, just these two and... his fingers kept finding more and more.
He fell on his arms and laughed, or would have. Under the circumstances he just breathed the hot air in and out. “Pregnant! Why didn't you tell me?” How could he make a pedigree for the foal? He felt her abdomen. Nothing yet.
He thought over the preceding weeks. Her irritableness. Hmm. When had she been with other kardja... must have been his first days in Darach. “You're a mother!” he croaked out. He stroked her head. She w
as not impressed, ducking her head away then trying to fall asleep again.
He felt the burgeoning teats again. Here, in the harshest of environments, he felt the joy and wonder of the preparation for new life. A stone sank into his stomach. He shouldn't be riding her. She should be drinking, and drinking in large quantities. Eating fresh grass.
She was old enough to bear, he was sure. His father hadn't bred her last year. Too many mothers were at risk at that age. Breeding hadn't even crossed Orion's mind this year. Too much going on.
Too much going on. Why didn't he turn back? They could have found the merchant later. The ring—what hopes did he really have of finding it? The man was sure to have friends and he—what did he have except a few stories? A childhood friend of a queen's from many years ago—what if she weren't queen anymore?
His parents were dead, both of them. He'd left Devlin behind in his pathetic speech to Enda. Why not Astra? She was even more different than his father. He had no ring. So? What was it but a piece of jewelry his mother adored? He had a kardja, perhaps the finest now living. One that would have held her head high even among Liam's throngs.
A thought hit him. This was the desert Liam had passed through. He was too far south. What had the tales said? Seven days. Bards seemed to like that number, so you couldn't be sure. So they were barely halfway through. If they went as fast as that army of old had.
And they were now three. He thought no more of the heat that midday, just of the maddening expanse that still lay before him.
He decided, if that's what it could be called, to press on. Back behind them he knew how long it would take. It seemed a huge distance—he, with no water left; she, bearing her foal—but it was known. Fixed. Forward, who could tell? He might be taking them to death. If it came to the end, could he do it? Could he force her beyond her strength to save his life? Could he make them to die in order to survive?
He pushed those thoughts away. Hour by hour, his face grew leaner, taut with the pressing weight of the scorched expanse: foodless, waterless. His hunger gnawed at him but that was the least of his worries. Water—he had gone without for half a day so far, and very little before that. How long could a body last?
That night he lay there parched, thinking. He tried to distract himself. Thinking of his anger for the merchant. His parents behind him on separate hills, dead. A woman holding the answer in a city ahead. But his mind would not work. Half-formed visions fled in and out. He lost control of his imagination. The desert was no longer a place: it was a monster. It laughed at him, hinted at his death in every breath of wind, spit on him with every fleck of sand. Pulling him down, scorching what little exposed skin he had.
No, he could not think of the past or the future. Such was madness. The present. Something. The only reality left was Kerry: all else was shifting landscape: always moving yet always the same. He stared at her eyes, seeing a dullness but no madness there. He stroked her body, seeking to remember a life outside this one.
He had chosen wrong. They would not survive. He lay there, a hand on Kerry. “Why!?” His ears caught no sound, for the noise was only in his mind. Everything was in his mind: what was constant, real out there? His hands spasmed and he shook, wishing he could with an act of violence rend the veil, cut away this accursed place.
Kerry squealed. She got up and trotted away. He hardly noticed. He lay his face in his hands and sunk. Prone on the desert floor. Alone.
He dreamed. Hallucination, vision, dream, waking life—he could not tell. He had no energy to make sense of it. He heard a kardja neigh. No, it was no kardja. More like a horse. But wilder, older than those silly beasts he'd heard before. It neighed again. He tried to look but could not see. He felt rather than saw a head with a long nose nodding at him, blowing out of its nose. His nose, rather. He raised his head, gasping. His face had been laying in a bowl of cold water. He looked about and did not see anyone about. He strained his eyes.
Feeling exhausted, as if his eyes were pulling the fabric of the landscape back, his face sank to his hands once more. He felt the rough sand on the back of his hands. He rolled to the side, looking where Kerry had gone. He tasted something on his lips—they were wet. Was it blood? Had they burst once more?
He looked at his hands. His right was discolored. He touched it with his left. The sand was not cool but it was damp. He raised his fingers to touch his lips, to feel for blood, then he saw it. A white streak on his hand. He smelled it. No scent, that he could tell. He licked it. He could barely taste it: it was not water, but it was not blood either.
He tried whistling and gave up immediately. “Kerry!” he called. Where had she gone? He turned around, swaying like a weaver after drinks. There she was, laying down again. He stumbled over to her.
Something clicked. He looked at her side, then back to his hand. His breathing sped up. Forcing himself to move slowly he approached her, stroking her back, hand tracing from insensitive areas to sensitive without surprising her. He tried what he had done just minutes ago unconsciously. It worked!
It was so simple. He'd done it a thousand times before, filling buckets upon buckets for his mother to turn into cheese. Only now his bucket was his mouth, desperate for the life-giving fluid. He milked Kerry—there was not much, this early on, but perhaps a cupful shared between the teats. She looked back at him curiously once or twice but didn't fight or flee.
He looked proudly at Kerry with new eyes: they would make it through. Worries fled for the moment. The old tales were true.
The days following were as hard as ever. Not so much as a cloud shielded their way or an oasis to greet them. But all had changed. Kerry's life-giving milk sustained him, gave him what he absolutely needed. He felt guilty, stealing her wealth of nutrients, but knew she was stronger than he. They'd gone farther than he thought possible. Never would he willingly come this way again.
The seventh day in the desert he faded again, feeling almost as weak as the day his water ran out. Would this desert never end? Yet he expected it to, at any moment. Why couldn't he see a change on the horizon? Just yellow to gray to black and back again as the sun whirled around them.
He told himself it might be a while yet. Even if it was seven days for Liam and his men, that was a long time ago. Kerry was no war kardja. They had not the supplies of the army. Perhaps their route was different, or the desert had spread since that day. The thought crossed his mind—do deserts grow? He thought it more than likely.
For all his mind games, he was bitterly disappointed when the sun went down and there was no change on the horizon. In anger he drove Kerrry on, into the night. He had not done this for some time, hoping that rest might compensate somehow for her long fast. She kept slowing and he, tired as he was, kept pushing her on. Finally she tripped, a rock or purely exhaustion he could not tell, and he fell.
She shuffled away from him and then collapsed. They both lay where they fell, not even the cool night air driving Orion to her side for warmth. Orion wanted to die.
He awoke. As usual, it was the heat that woke him. His eyes had been shielded by the arms used as pillows. He rolled over and groaned. Splinters of light pierced into his eyes and he ducked his face behind his arm once more.
Something felt different. Kerry? Where was she? He rolled onto all fours and looked at the ground below him until his eyes adjusted and his dizziness left him. He got up, braced against the last of the dizziness, and looked around him. Kerry was lying on her side. He walked over to her.
Her left foreleg was red and swollen. He fell to his knees. What a fool. She opened her eyes at the sound then closed them. He hated himself. Why didn't he let her stop?
He felt thirsty. He told himself not to, but couldn't. He took his morning drink. He felt so ashamed of himself. He wished he could break off an arm and feed it to her, pay her back somehow.
He looked around again. No change on the horizon, just the usual gray. But there was something besides the sand: a lone cactus, half as tall as himself. He staggered over to it,
kicking at it, knocking it over. Stupid, slow down. He pulled out his knife, his dried fingers dropping it twice. He gingerly cut at the stalk.
Ouch. He poked himself, twice. But the cactus was his. He stabbed it with his knife and dragged it back to Kerry. He slit it top to bottom and peeled the prickly skin back. By the time he was done his fingers were bleeding everywhere. He kept sucking his hands: blood was too precious to waste.
Kerry didn't move. He cut out some of the cactus flesh and placed it in her mouth. She didn't chew. He took another piece and cut several slits in it then, dropping his knife, squeezed it as hard as he could over her lower lip. Its juice dropped into her mouth. Her tongue moved and then her mouth. She began chewing. He sat back, watching. He felt as if he'd just cooked his greatest meal.
He cut her another piece, then another. Soon she was more alert and began nosing the dismembered cactus. He put his knife away and watched her eat. Finally, she turned away from the cactus.
He grabbed her by the halter before her long neck could lay down again. “Up, girl! Up!” He felt cruel, malevolent. But it must be done.
She rose, on three legs plus a hesitant touch here and there with her swollen left. He pulled her along and she settled into a lurching gait. He walked her a hundred paces then felt the leg. It wasn't broken, he didn't think. He pulled on her again and she kept walking.
An hour later he looked back and thought he could still see the cactus. He sighed. His question earlier? Now he knew the answer. Deserts grow. Overnight, in fact. It was twice as big now as it had been. He sighed, and looked far ahead. Just the same old gray horizon. Then a thrill coursed through his body. The sand was yellow, but the horizon gray! He didn't care if was just rocks at the end: something was changing!